


ears ring and teeth click

by chazzy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (being the general mindfuckery that comes from the spiral), Altered Mental States, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, F/F, Gore, Grinding, Multiple Orgasms, is "organ play" a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 13:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20175277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chazzy/pseuds/chazzy
Summary: In the wake of the Flesh's attack on the Archives, Melanie finds a door and an offer of help.





	ears ring and teeth click

**Author's Note:**

> first foray into tma fandom and it's with femslash guro. thank u to this podcast for finally getting me to post fic after years of barely writing
> 
> title is from ungirthed by purity ring, fic is unbeta-ed  
i'm posting at 4am hopefully everything is formatted and tagged right
> 
> might do a softer sequel-type fic that'd take place after helen and melanie become friends? who knows. i certainly don't

The only sound Melanie is aware of over the rush of her blood in her ears is the _drip, drip, drip_ of others' blood in a puddle around her. Adrenaline pumps through her in the aftermath of the attack of the Flesh, filling her with the need to run, to tear, to fight. She resists, simply standing hunched over, listening to blood and waiting for the anger to pass.

It doesn't. She gradually becomes aware of other sounds, including her own heaving breath, and the adrenaline dies down, leaving her aching and tired, but the anger doesn't fade. It's strong, coursing through her, heating her blood and causing a numbness that separates her from her body. The adrenaline is gone but not the need to run, to fight, to bite down and rip and _tear_, to destroy anything and everything until the anger is sated.

Melanie feels like a feral animal, drenched in blood from head to toe and shivering with rage. Standing in a sea of Flesh doesn't help either, amongst bodies that aren't right, too full of meat and bone to make any sense.

She needs—she needs something. She needs to make this _stop_. This isn't right, this isn't the anger she knows. The anger she knows gives her power, confidence, lets her control her life, as unhealthy as it may be. This anger, she doesn't control it—_it_ controls _her_; it is all-consuming.

Still shaking, Melanie stumbles further into the Archives. She's not sure where she's going, just away, away from other people before she hurts someone, away until she can find some way to fix this. She almost doesn't notice the door until it opens and she realizes she's never seen a door there before. It looks out of place, as if the shelves on either side were shoved aside to make room for it, and the woman who steps out doesn't look like she belongs any more than it does.

It takes her a moment, but Melanie realizes she recognizes the woman. She had been there during the attack; Melanie doesn't remember what exactly she had done, but she remembers the woman being on their side.

Now, standing here, Melanie wonders if that's strictly true. While fighting, she had been focusing on offense—_stabbing, ripping, rending_—only noticing her allies as such so she didn't attack them. Now, even through her haze of anger, she can sense something distinctly _wrong_ about the woman, even disregarding the door that shouldn't be there. It's like she's a step apart from reality, not settling into _being_ like she should. Everything about her is sharp and spiraling and hurts to look at. As Melanie catalogs what she can about this woman (_thing_?) into her brain, she notes on her (_its_?) appearance as best she can make out; pale, shoulder-length hair that fell in waves, curling inwards slightly (_infinitely_) near the jaw, and a face that was lined and tired and placid when it settled into something that made any sense at all. In the back of her mind, Melanie thinks that if this were a different situation, this might be someone she would be attracted to.

It (_her_?) watches patiently from the doorway as Melanie analyzes her (_her_; the woman had a sense of identity around her that made her more than an _it_), and then as Melanie gathers herself to speak.

"Who… who are you?" Melanie's question is halting, difficult to speak calmly around the red in her vision and the tingling in her hands begging her to lash out.

"Who." The woman tilts her head to the side and something in Melanie's brain skips like a broken record. Her voice is melodic and lilting. "That's an interesting question. … You may call me Helen."

'_May call her,_' Melanie notes silently. "Is that your name?"

"It's _a_ name. Certainly a name that I have been called before."

Melanie doesn't have the focus to think about that, and settles for _good enough _before moving on to her next question. "Why are you here?"

"To help." The woman is more confident about this answer.

Right, the attack, Melanie remembers. "But why are you here _now_?"

A pause, and an expression that's both exasperated and sympathetic under layers of fractals. "To help." Melanie doesn't have time to respond before the woman continues, "Your mind is not recovering as it should. I can help."

Melanie almost asks _how do I know I can trust you_ before deciding that that's a worthless question. She couldn't trust anyone these days, and the anger that had begun to fade is coming back stronger now. If she was going to fix this, Melanie would have to take this woman's help or find something else _fast_, and she wasn't sure she could.

"Fine." At this, the woman—Helen, Melanie reminds herself—holds out her hand in a _come_ gesture before returning through the doorway. Melanie has only a moment for _is this really a good idea?_ to flash across her thoughts before she follows.

Here, where ever _here_ is, Helen no longer seems out of place. Instead, it feels like _Melanie_ is out of place. That spiraling, sharp feeling surrounds her now, making everything seem both right and wrong simultaneously. It's jarring, and Melanie has to catch herself on a wall as she stumbles.

Turning to Helen, she tries to ignore the dizziness that threatens to overcome her in this place. "You said you would help," she gasps.

Helen merely hums, and the sound burrows itself into Melanie's brain. "You should probably sit. This will be… disorienting."

Melanie wants to retort with _it already is_ but isn't able, and simply does as she's told. Leaning against a wall, she watches as Helen crouches in front of her, caging her in.

And then Helen reaches out to touch her cheek, and the disorientation worsens even as it disappears. It feels like Melanie clicks into place with her surroundings as her brain spirals out of control, unable to focus. The anger is flooded out of her mind to make room for whining static, spirals and fractals swirling at the edge of her vision. Distantly, she imagines this might be what an acid trip feels like.

Helen's fingers drag down, tracing her jaw, before she places both hands flat on Melanie's stomach. It feels wrong, her touch feeling like what static looks like even through her clothing; not bad, just _wrong_. It's jarring more than anything else and Melanie gasps aloud.

Helen slides her fingers under Melanie's shirt and around her sides, settling low on her back. It's even more startling than through her clothing and Melanie jolts at it. "Wh—what are you doing?" Her voice sounds distant to her ears, drowned out by a high pitched ringing.

"Helping." The pads of Helen's fingers trace lines up her back, and she's barely touching Melanie but it feels like she leaves welts in her wake, the heated sensation of her touch sticking long after she's moved on.

Not waiting for any kind of response, Helen tilts her head forward and—kisses her, her lips somehow feeling warm and human against Melanie's. No matter how human Helen's lips may feel, the response it invokes in Melanie certainly is not. An acidic heat washes through her, crackling and burning like heartburn, congregating in her belly and where Helen's palms have come to rest against her shoulders. She shivers, but not from adrenaline or anger.

It gets harder to follow from there. Helen's fingers skate across her skin, around her front and down as Melanie writhes under the feeling. Her lips move down as well, licking a path across Melanie's cheek and mouthing against her jawline. Melanie jolts as Helen's teeth catch on her pulse point, feeling needle-sharp, sharper than they have any right to be; it should make her afraid, and it does, but mostly it just sparks more of that burning heat swirling through her abdomen.

Melanie had lost track of Helen's hands, unable to focus on much at once, until suddenly they're on the fastenings of her jeans. The woman doesn't wait for permission, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping them, and Melanie isn't able to protest as Helen nips marks under her jaw with those inhuman teeth.

Her hands don't head straight south as Melanie expected them to. Instead, her long fingers curl under Melanie's thighs, groping as her thumbs press down into the muscles in the seam between thigh and torso. It's a sensitive spot and her touch isn't gentle, massaging roughly; the feeling makes Melanie buck her hips in need. That prickly feeling of Helen's touch so close to where she wants it is maddening, almost more so than the fractals that dance across her sight whenever she tries too hard to focus.

Helen has her like that, squirming and whining, for what feels like hours as she teases her. Her tongue lathes against Melanie's neck, feeling both coarse like a cat's and slimy like some sort of—tentacle, as her thumbs dig into Melanie's muscles and her fingers squeeze softly at the fat of her thighs. The dichotomy of the sensations is working her up faster than she can process, only aided by the sharp staticky feeling of Helen herself. Every time Melanie tries to press up, to get some sort of friction, Helen's grip clenches tighter around her and sends hot static arching through her while keeping her from getting any real relief.

After an undefinable amount of time Helen suddenly shifts her hands with no warning, patient as ever as she pulls both Melanie's jeans and panties down in one fluid motion. Melanie expects the air to be cool against her heated skin, but nothing about this place seems to be quite right, including temperature; she feels no warmer nor cooler than she had with her clothing on.

Not taking her face away from where it's still pressed into the crook of Melanie's neck, Helen smooths her palms up along the inside of Melanie's thighs and then up through her folds without pause. Melanie startles, surprised by how soaked she is. She'd known she was worked up, but hadn't been aware of exactly how aroused she was until then.

Helen pulls back for a moment to study her, and the decreased contact causes the dizziness to somewhat rush back, albeit not as strong as before. However, the dizziness is forgotten when Melanie sees Helen bring the fingers that had slid against her, now shiny with her slick, up to her mouth and lick them clean.

Helen doesn't seem affected, placidly gazing down at the woman below her, but a rush of heat—not Helen's acidic heat, but normal arousal—lurches through Melanie's gut.

Helen leans back into her, and the dizziness fades with the wave of static that washes through Melanie. The feeling is almost sedative, her mind calming while her body tingles with needle-pricks that aren't there and a vague sense of vertigo. Helen doesn't seem interested in exploring Melanie's nethers further, which is disappointing, but does shove a still-clothed thigh between Melanie's legs as her hands wander back upwards. They soothe over her sides before yanking her forward, further onto Helen's thigh, and Melanie is practically in her lap now with the way they're sitting: Helen sat primly, legs folded underneath her, and Melanie sprawled out around her. She can't seem to make her limbs cooperate into a more dignified position and simply grinds downward, clenching her fists tightly into Helen's shirt, where they seem to have moved to on their own when she hadn't noticed.

Helen's hands pull her down, encouraging the rocking motion of Melanie's hips before gravitating back around to her stomach. Melanie can't see her face anymore from where her own is now pressed to Helen's shoulder, but something about the woman's demeanor seems to change. She seems… more excited now, somehow, something about her almost vibrating.

And then her hands are digging (_tearing ripping rending shredding_) into Melanie's stomach, sliding past layers of fat and muscle in amongst her organs. Melanie shivers, eyes wide, but finds herself unable to move, to defend herself. Instead somehow she grows _more aroused_, shuddering and groaning lightly under her breath.

Helen's fingers curl around the intestines, twisting them into new shapes around her knuckles, and the sensation is so extremely wrong in the best way, so unnervingly _pleasing_. Melanie can feel the blood gushing down her abdomen, soaking Helen's clothing, though she doesn't seem to mind the blood any more than she had minded Melanie grinding her fluids into the fabric of her slacks. Her fingertips explore Melanie's insides, knowing her in a way no one ever had before, not even herself. Helen pets along her digestion track, tightening her grip here and there, and with each squeeze Melanie's hips jump down into Helen's thigh.

Pleased with whatever she's learned, Helen's digits retreat from Melanie's innards. The tips of her fingertips skate along Melanie's skin once more, now trailing blood in their wake, before flaying open the skin on her flanks with nothing more than a thought and the pads of her fingers. More red flows down Melanie's sides, though she can't see it, only feel the rivulets of her lifeblood trickling down in the direction of her hips.

She's gasping against Helen now, her hips jerking in small spasms in search of harder, faster, _more_. Melanie doesn't know why she's reacting in the way she is but she's quickly finding herself desperate for release.

Helen's palms travel upwards, smearing the cooling blood overtop Melanie's ribcage as she skirts under her breasts, pushing Melanie's shirt up as she does so. Her fingers hesitantly skitter over Melanie's chest, seemingly searching for something, and Melanie's afraid she knows what.

Helen's touch find Melanie's heartbeat, pumping frantically under her skin, and becomes confident. Once again, her fingertips dig into Melanie, slipping beneath skin and muscle and bone, ignoring her ribs like they aren't even there.

Breathing now harsh to match Melanie's, though her chest doesn't seem to shudder with it like it should, Helen slides her fingers tentatively around Melanie's heart. Her digits thread through the veins and arteries, index finger of her right hand slipping between the aorta and pulmonary artery while her the palm left caresses the organ from underneath. Helen seems almost reverent, caressing Melanie's heart like something precious as it undulates in her hold. Melanie's breath comes short and shallow, blood flowing unrestrained down her front, and she can almost _hear_ the beat of her heart fluttering in Helen's clasped hands. She's shivering uncontrollably now. The panic feeds into her arousal and back into the fear in an unending loop, building both up to some unforeseen conclusion that's rushing quickly towards her.

And then Helen _squeezes_, gently, and Melanie's fear and arousal come to a peak in a mind-shattering orgasm that whites out her thoughts.

When she comes back to herself, her throat is raw and her knuckes ache from how hard they're clenched into Helen's shirt. She forces them to relax and leans cautiously back, looking down at herself: all of her organs are back inside where they belong, no gashes or holes to be found, her flesh completely unmarred save the damage she took during the attack. The blood is still there, painting her pale skin in a deep red, almost black with how dark it is. Melanie feels like that amount of blood loss should be concerning, but she feels fine. Better than she did, even.

When Melanie glances up at Helen, the other woman is already staring back at her. Where before she had been placid, unaffected, her eyes (which seem to spiral back into some unknown depth) are now lidded, her lips parted in panting breath. Seeing Melanie look at her, she smiles, pleased.

And then her hands wander lower again, against Melanie's cunt, and Melanie squeaks at the sensation on her oversensitive parts. Helen's touch slides down through her folds, tracing the path from earlier and mixing blood in with slick, before heading back upwards to Melanie's clit.

The next few minutes seem to pass in a blur. Melanie's hands clench back into the fabric of Helen's shirt, wrinkling it even further as the woman overstimulates her. Two fingers rub circles into the hood of her clit, pressing hard, and Melanie's hips shift as she whines breathily, not knowing if she wants more or less. Her head ends up against Helen's chest, short squeaky moans forced out of her as her entire body tenses harshly with another orgasm.

This time, Helen seems sated, gently easing Melanie onto the floor beneath them both after the shockwaves pass. Melanie herself is certainly sated, body wrung-out with that bone-deep ache that only comes from good sex, thoughts groggy in her afterglow. Not seeming to mind the lack of help, Helen eases Melanie's slack limbs back into her clothing, gently patting her stomach after pulling her shirt down. "No one will notice a little extra blood, hm?"

Melanie doesn't reply, barely able to process the words. Unphased by the lack of response, Helen merely hoists the woman's limp body into her arms bridal-style, carrying her out of the halls as Melanie's eyes unseeingly watch the walls pass by. She does notice when they re-enter the Archives, reality snapping back into place around her. It's sobering, pulling her out of the afterglow, and her muscles convulse at the shock. Helen lets her down and Melanie stand shakily with the woman's help.

As she tries to re-orient herself, Melanie remembers what the purpose of… all of _that_ was in the first place, and realizes with jolt that the anger is gone. If she searches, it's still there, burning low like embers of a fire, but it's not in the forefront anymore. She can think clearly now, no longer overcome by a desire to fight.

Once Melanie is stable on her own, Helen pulls back, taking a moment to assess the woman in front of her. Her face is unreadable, back to the placid expression Melanie now suspects is a mask.

"Well," and she startles at Helen's voice, somehow not expecting her to speak, "That was fun, wasn't it?"

"Uh..." Melanie fumbles for something to say to that, but before she can find her words, Helen is gone back into the door, and a moment later the door is gone with her.

Melanie stands, staring blankly at the now empty wall, and is left alone to clean herself up and process what the _hell_ just happened.

**Author's Note:**

> my fandom twitter is @miIkrot (that's a capital i not an l) if u wanna talk weird shit with me  
(pls heed the warnings in the bio tho)


End file.
